Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (6 page)

At least he’d learned one very important thing—Otto was even more protective of his horse than the trailer—which made Kurt very keen to examine the man’s volatile mare.

Chapter Seven

Back in the privacy of his motel room, Kurt entered his password and tapped some keys, waiting as the laptop downloaded a glut of information. Archer’s office had forwarded a summary of the cases Connor had been involved with, including call history and a timeline of his activities.

Kurt scrolled down, choosing two pages for scrutiny—persons of interest in Connor O'Neil’s murder. The list was short, only two, and one he now considered as more of a witness.

WEST, JULIE A.: Female Caucasian, Age 23, Green Eyes, Blond Hair, Weight 48.9 kg/108 lb, Height 1.5 meters/5 ft 2 in. Occupations: university student. Distinguishing Features: none. Prior Convictions: none.

He skimmed her history. No siblings, mother deceased. Plain vanilla. He wished for more. Was rather curious about Julie. He’d request a more comprehensive report in the morning, more pictures too. This one was rather blurry. She wasn’t smiling and it didn’t do her justice, not one bit.

He flipped the page over and turned his attention to Otto. Ah, now this page wasn’t as pretty, but it was definitely more interesting:

LAING, OTTO P.: Male Caucasian, Age 36, Brown Eyes, Brown Hair, Weight 109.7 kg/242 lb, Height 1.8 meters/5 ft 11 in. Occupations: trucker, metalworker. Dual U.S./Canadian citizenship. Distinguishing Features: scar on right shoulder. Prior Convictions: assault and battery. Prior Charges: robbery, drunk driving, resisting arrest, spousal abuse, rape. (See Report B0T-1826-1)

Kurt reached into the bar fridge and pulled out a can of beer before tackling Report B0T-1826-1. He snapped open the can and turned to the glowing screen.

Otto's adult record had begun in Montana. Convictions included drunk driving and assaulting a police officer. He’d spent time in jail for various misdemeanors, but a rape charge had been dismissed when the alleged victim disappeared.

The man's history was extensive, although one omission was gaping. It didn't include drugs.

Kurt tilted in the wooden chair, propping his feet on the bed as he tried to draw a link between Connor and Otto Laing. The room was an ideal thinking spot, silent except for the drone of the laptop and the occasional ticking of a pipe. However, he couldn’t find anything to connect the two men. Couldn’t imagine what Connor had seen on the highway.

Dispatch records showed he’d stopped to help Laing with a flat tire. A racehorse had been reloaded; everything appeared routine. But something had trigged Connor’s suspicions, enough that he’d run the man’s license plates and followed him to the track. It had to be something noticeable, something other than Otto’s abrasive personality.

The trailer had been unremarkable. Had to be the animal.

There were no races tonight. In a few hours the backside would be empty, the perfect time to poke around the barn. Kurt tilted the beer can and took a speculative swig as he wondered what he’d find on Otto’s horse.

“Good evening, sir,” the guard said. “You keep long hours.”

The same young guard watched the horsemen’s gate, but now he was lonely and slightly more talkative. Short hair emphasized his skinny neck, and a lumpy Adam's apple rippled when he spoke.

Kurt flipped open his trainer's license. “One of my horses is prone to colic. Have to make regular checks. Many people around?”

“Just a few guys.” The guard scanned his credentials and returned them with solemn authority. “Should be quiet the rest of the night.”

Excellent. Kurt slid his license back in his pocket and followed the dark path to G barn.

He eased into the barn and paused, stopped by insolent eyes. A black cat with a sagging belly sprawled in the aisle, a squeaking mouse pinned beneath its claws. The cat picked up the mouse, glaring at Kurt as it chewed. The squeaking stopped as the mouse disappeared, tail last, but the cat lingered in the aisle, licking its paws.

Kurt eyed the far wall, wondering which path the cat had taken. He wasn't keen to invite any bad luck, but he also didn't want to inconvenience himself over a silly superstition. Always a quandary.

“Scat.” He waved his arm. The cat ran to the left, leaving clear passage along the right side of the aisle. Cisco leaned over the stall door, ears pricked, as though amused by Kurt’s maneuvering. That horse was too damn smart.

Kurt avoided Cisco’s gaze and walked directly to Otto’s stall. He crouched down and peered through the knothole then jumped, startled by the big brown eye staring back. Obviously the mare had discovered the peekhole and now kept close watch on barn traffic.

He slid the latch back and opened the door. She rushed back, pressing against the far wall, tail clamped, her trembles visible even in the gloom.

“Easy, sweetie.” He stepped into the dank stall, concerned by her reaction. Examining her would take much longer than anticipated.

He left the door slightly ajar. From the outside, no one could see it was unlatched. But if the mare went berserk—and that seemed a distinct possibility—he could escape. He waited, fighting the urge to rush, trying to show he wasn't a threat. And finally, she turned. She still hugged the far wall but at least faced him, nostrils flaring as she sucked in his scent. He edged forward, pausing each time she considered wheeling until finally she was close enough to touch.

“Easy, sweetheart. I’m just going to check you over.” He kept his voice calm, unhurried, even though every instinct screamed to rush. Gradually her trembles subsided as he stroked her smooth, silky shoulder. Then—not so smooth after all—his fingers stilled over a large welt.

He pulled out his flashlight and ran the light over her coat. Abrasions marred her back and chest, and several welts were thick and crusted. A rope? Or some type of hobble? They seemed recent, the scabs a week to ten days old. He skimmed the light over the rest of her body but found no incisions to mark a hiding place.

One more spot to check. A sensitive one. He slid his hand down her rump toward the top of her tail. She humped in protest and he paused, uneasy, afraid the ruckus was too loud in the quiet barn.

He changed tactics, smoothing his hands over her hindquarters then down her legs, gentling her again to his touch. At this rate it would take some time to check her cervix. Her trust in humans had clearly been shattered.

He touched her left leg, noting how her ears pinned. Obvious pain and heat. Reached over and gently felt her other leg. Both hind legs were swollen, the puffiness extending along the tendons from the hocks to the fetlocks. He leaned forward and shoved the straw away from her hooves.

Disbelief rocked him back on his heels.

He’d never seen such a mess. Nail holes riddled her hoof walls. So many holes—

The mare's sudden leap knocked him off balance, and she flung herself against the side of the stall, smashing at the boards with lethal hooves. What the hell? Then he heard what she already knew. Voices. And very close.

He sprinted across the aisle, thankful the mare’s noise muffled the latching of her door. Vaulted over the top of Cisco’s stall and rolled under the startled gelding’s belly.

The speakers entered the barn. Two voices. One was Otto's but the second had a harsh accent. German or Scandinavian maybe?

The mare’s kicking increased as they moved closer and her angry hooves pounded the wall, blocking pieces of their conversation.

“Be suitable to ship next week. Get one race in before the trip to Idaho…take her next week while I'm away,” the accented voice said.

“Okay, we'll race…leave on Monday. When do I get my money?” Otto’s voice was different, oddly meek.

Kurt considered rising from the straw and meeting Otto's companion. But two night visits within twenty-four hours? Even Otto might question that. And the skin on the back of his neck prickled, always a barometer of danger.

So he remained flat in the straw, curbing his sneeze while hiding behind a stoic Cisco. The muffled voices shifted to the far entrance, lingered for an endless moment, then faded. Kurt’s breathing steadied. He allowed himself a muffled sneeze but waited a full fifteen minutes before leaving the sanctuary of the stall.

He gave Cisco an affectionate pat before crossing the aisle and peering through the hole. The mare was calm again, staring with a soulful eye. She was priceless too, better than a watchdog when it involved Otto, and he whispered his thanks.

But when he eased outside into the friendly darkness, his hands fisted. He still had no idea what had sparked Connor’s interest in the mare. Tomorrow he’d have to pump Julie for information. Pump her hard.

Sexual images nudged into his thoughts, thoughts he muscled into line. He hadn’t come here to socialize. Had never been reluctant to play hardball. As always, he’d do what was necessary to make sure she cooperated, and feelings had nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing.

Chapter Eight

Dawn’s colorless light seeped through the motel curtain. Kurt turned on his back and rolled to the middle of the bed. He liked mulling over a case when he was half asleep, when ideas drifted and took shape. But foreign sounds kept intruding: the hum of the clock radio, the slam of a car door, water swooshing through pipes.

Sighing, he propped his head on the lumpy pillow and stared at the ceiling. Wide awake now, he had no need to rush. His horses had been fed, his stalls cleaned. Sandra had found a teenager who was eager to earn money working as a stable hand. And the luxury of extra time this morning was appreciated. He felt sluggish, his sleep disrupted by confusing pictures of Connor and Otto…and Julie.

Why was Otto hauling the horse back to the States so quickly? Julie said he was determined to race the mare tonight. But based on the conversation Kurt had overheard in the barn, there had been no concern about the horse's health or about her readiness to run. They’d only discussed her suitability to ship. Race results seemed irrelevant.

It was possible the horse was used for smuggling, although he hadn’t found any signs. A vet check might show how they hid the contraband, and he also wanted a farrier to look at her, but it would be impossible to confiscate the animal without exposing the investigation. And it was premature to do that. Shaking his head, he flung back the sheet and rose.

His frustration lingered after his shower. It was ironic both he and Connor had transferred from the undercover street team, frazzled but still functioning. Kurt had left police work and immersed himself in the race world. Connor, older but less emotionally scathed, had stayed with the RCMP but retreated to a relatively undemanding job in southern Alberta.

It had been nine months since Kurt last talked to him, nine months since Kurt had jotted down his phone number and promptly tucked it away. Regret seared him. He should have talked longer. Should have asked more questions. Should have made more effort.

At least Connor had sounded content. He’d even joked about his boring job. A boring job that had resulted in his murder. Kurt winced.

He yanked on his boots, consumed with the need to discover what had drawn Connor to Otto’s mare. Connor’s report stated he’d encountered an emergency traffic hazard so had assisted with a flat tire and helped reload a horse. In that twenty-minute period, he must have spotted something illegal.

Edgy with purpose, Kurt slammed the motel door and slid into his truck. When Connor had signed in at the track gate, he’d asked directions to Otto Laing’s barn but had said little else. Julie was the last person to speak with Connor, the last known person to see him alive. Kurt had to get her talking. She might remember something Connor had said, some small detail that would expose a motive for murder.

He detoured for coffee and a bagel. By the time he rolled onto the track parking lot, the backside bustled. A sleepy-eyed attendant sold him a race program. Kurt flicked through it while balancing two coffee cups in his right hand.

Otto’s horse was listed on page sixteen. She was entered in the seventh race tonight: a ten-thousand-dollar claiming race for fillies and mares. Her registered name was Country Girl. Julie West was the jockey. Otto Laing was listed as both owner and trainer.

Kurt scanned the horse's past performance. Her previous races were in Idaho and Montana. All were claiming races, a low-level race where any horse could be claimed for the stated amount. Her best finish was a second at the seventy-five-hundred dollar level.

The steep jump in class was noticeable. Otto didn't want to risk losing the mare so he’d bumped her from seventy-five hundred to ten thousand. It was doubtful anyone would claim her for ten when she couldn’t win at the lower price tag. Her breeding was unremarkable; even with the dollar exchange the mare would be a poor bargain. A bad claim.

Kurt’s stride quickened, spurred by a simple idea. The horse was a bad claim for racing but not for the police. If he claimed Otto's horse tonight, she could be inspected at leisure—they’d be able to run any test they wanted. Hot coffee splashed his hand but didn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

He entered the barn and saw Julie waiting by Lazer’s stall, saddle and helmet at her feet. She looked perky at seven in the morning and obviously was keen to get back on his horse.

“Good morning,” she said. “I wasn't sure what time you wanted to work this guy?”

“This is good. But the tractors are harrowing now so we have time for coffee.”

She accepted the cup with a grateful smile but jerked back when his fingers deliberately brushed hers.
Interesting
. Brave enough to take on Otto, but she jumped from his touch. She edged back another foot, ostensibly to drop the tab of her lid in the garbage can, but it was clear she was shutting him down.

Or trying to.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asked, not surprised when she shook her head at the packets. Riders learned to shave calories whenever they could. She didn’t look like she had problems—he indulged in another discreet perusal—but for most riders, battling weight was a way of life.